


you kissed me like a storm at sea

by crookedspoon



Series: Spicing up the Autumn 2017 [12]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, Master/Servant, POV Noah Czerny, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: It started out with you losing a wager and having to pose as Barry's maid for a day.





	you kissed me like a storm at sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giuggiulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuggiulu/gifts).



> For Day #12 "Master/Slave" at Kinktober.

"What's going on with you two?" a classmate asks after he saw you handing Barry – Whelk, he insists you call him, even though you're roommates, even though you're best friends, and you oblige him where the other boys can hear, but privately you still call him what you want – after he saw you handing _Whelk_ his books for the next lesson. "Do you always wait on him hand and foot?"

It sounds provocative the way he says it, like you should somehow not be helping your friend out. Or not in a carrying-his-bag-around-for-him kinda way.

"Nah," you said, twizzling two twizzlers in your mouth. "Just lost a wager, is all."

"Again?"

"My sister always said I should never start gambling, because I'm lousy at it."

She was right. You are. But that is not what this is. Not anymore. It started out like this, with you losing a wager and having to pose as Barry's maid for a day. It was just an innocent game back then: you had to do things like clean up after him or run to the store if he wanted snacks or copy books for him when he was writing essays.

Basically, whatever he said, which also meant he got to decide if and what you'd be watching if your day of servitude fell on the weekend. You'd bargain for that sometimes if your courseload for a particular week was crazy and you needed all the hours of the day just to be able to do your homework. Other times you used it as a distraction not to do the same. But you couldn't always show up in class unprepared, so.

You found that blaming your subservience on something relatable like a lost wager made it easier to bear. It was out of your hands, there was nothing you could do about it, those were the rules.

You were just doing it because you were a good sport. Not because you wanted to.

And certainly not because it made you feel kinda funny when he ordered you around, or when he ordered _for_ you at a fast-food joint as if he either already knew what you wanted or if he didn't care enough to listen.

That one made you shut right up. (You were wont to chat with the staff instead of deciding what to order, holding you both up, so in a way he was just speeding things along, but the way it made your stomach flip-flop was not that easy to ignore.)

You were silent the rest of the way home, sucking down your milkshake so fast it gave you a stomachache.

This must have been the first time that you noticed your feelings for him weren't pure admiration. Sure, he had a way about him that you liked – so effortlessly cool and suave. Made you feel so lucky to be roomies with him, because that meant you got to know him better, got to know a side of him the other boys on campus didn't get to know.

Or it meant you could play butler and housekeeper and whatever the heck else all rolled into one without anyone else having to know about it. Barry doesn't have any other close friends aside from you (so he couldn't be laughing about you behind your back), and that was flattering in a way. It made you special somehow.

You didn't notice your feelings for him were a crush until too late. You had been losing more and more wagers lately, sometimes on purpose even, because you'd grown used to the way you two had been handling things. Also, because it kinda-sorta turned you on when he treated you like property, like you didn't have a will of your own, or if you did, that this will of yours could be easily overruled by him. But you hadn't been ready to admit that to yourself yet.

You were watching some action-flick or other, him sitting on his bed and you beside him on the floor, craning your neck to get a good look at the twenty-four inch monitor he had hooked up to his laptop.

It would have been too intimate for you to be sitting on his bed, no matter that you had no such reservations when you first met. You simply plopped down on his mattress, chattering away as you do, peppering him with questions and letting him in on secrets, because isn't that the fastest way to gain someone's interest? You wanted the two of you to get along, and somehow you did, so in the end it all worked out.

Except that sitting so close to him, you could feel the heat radiating from his legs, you could inhale the scent from his bedding and, worst of all, you could imagine his fingers stroking your hair. No, worse, you _wanted_ that to happen. So you pretended you were tired and leaned your cheek against his knee. He didn't jerk it away.

You relaxed after a while, ignoring your hammering heart in your throat and how it made you uncomfortably hot under your T-shirt. He must have thought you had fallen asleep because you'd been purposely deepening your breath to calm down, so you wouldn't jump up and zip around the room, the way you wanted to be doing. He must have thought that, because his hand was suddenly resting on the top of your head, and you couldn't keep your fingers from curling into his track bottoms.

His fingers carded through your hair and a violent shudder took hold of you, because sweet baby Jesus, you've never felt anything better. You also guessed you could no longer pretend that you were snoozing.

So you looked up at him, making sure to keep nudging the top of your head into his palm, a little terrified of what to expect. It certainly didn't include his dark gaze boring into you as his features were illuminated by the explosions on the screen.

His fingers twisted around a handful of your hair and you sucked in a sharp breath and before you knew it, he had pulled you up so you were kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his mattress. His face was so close to yours he was breathing the same air as you, his breath puffing across your cheeks in a faint cloud. It smelled of the alcohol you had bought with his fake ID.

Perhaps that was what brought it on. Being drunk is usually the best excuse for bad ideas. Not that you cared about reasons. All you cared about was results. 

And the result here was the best possible outcome: he kissed you.

He mashed his lips against yours and he kissed you. It was weird at first, kissing a boy – you'd only shared sweet kisses with girlfriends you were only dating because that was the thing to do. But you eased into it, and even came to enjoy the scratch of stubble against your lips and beneath your fingers.

The merest touch of his tongue against yours liquefied your insides. Your fingers balled into his shirt, taken with the desire to touch him, but not daring to venture that far.

You let him guide you through this. Whatever he wanted, you wanted, too. And even if you wanted more than he was ready to offer, you would still be dying happy at the end of the day.

There was a lot of touching and a lot of skin to _be_ touching in the first place, and you wheeled through a multitude of emotions, too many to name or even remember.

So this was kind of how it all started. How you came to lug Barry's stuff around for him. How you stopped winning wagers and just got comfortable in your position as his manservant. You even liked that word, manservant. It sounded both prestigious and so, so dirty.

So yeah, you do in fact wait on him hand and foot. Because it's fun. Because you get to stay close to him. Because it occupies a part of your brain that would otherwise be running amok and firing away at the rest of your brain cells until all of them were infected with your latest batshit idea.

He keeps you focused on the task in front of you, which most of the time is he himself and whatever benefits him.

That's all right.

You like to feel useful, and he likes to use you, so it all works out in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Teenage Satellites" by blink-182.
> 
> *sigh* I'd actually wanted to work the prompt "Hand Jobs" into this and/or another I idea I had, but this felt too cute to ruin with anything more than hints. So maybe next time.


End file.
